


that twang, twang, twang echoing through your head

by annica



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Brotp, Gen, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-04
Updated: 2013-04-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 10:48:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/747663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annica/pseuds/annica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He will probably question the level and focus of his attentiveness after all this is over, but for now, he keeps looking at that string.</p>
            </blockquote>





	that twang, twang, twang echoing through your head

Observation. Always observe. It’s the first thing he picked up when he was studying Batman; working himself to be a worthy partner. Not matter what, where or when – he must always be observant. Observant and attentive.

He will probably question the level and focus of his attentiveness after all this is over, but for now, he keeps looking at that string. His gaze is blurred and blood is roaring in his ears and his limbs are shaking and his head is pounding and his torso is throbbing – but he still focuses on that shaking string. That shaking string and the  _twang, twang, twang_  that softly echoes through all other noises as Tigress continues to pluck it in a steady beat.

“Get up, Robin.” Somehow, the mask-muffled voice of Deathstroke manages to cut through the sound of plucking bowstring and his body screaming at him. His hand moves to the side, gloved fingertips grazing on the floor, and reaches out for his staff. The twanging of the bowstring stops. He curls his fingers around the middle of his staff. His teeth bite down on his tongue behind set lips; he’s certain all of the fingers in his left hand are broken.

It’s once he’s pushed himself back up onto his feet that he hears the plucked bowstring start up again. Tigress is standing by the door of the room; it’s hard to tell her expression behind her mask, but her lips are set in a thin line. He sees that much.

It bugs him that he knows barely anything about her. There’s nothing on file that dates back any more than a month ago – and these are  _Batman’s_  records.

It also bugs him that no-one else seems to be bugged about that fact, not even Dick.

He thinks he hears Deathstroke release a short laugh. He grits his teeth and sets his feet apart, and his holds his staff out, ready.

_…twang…twang…twang…_

The mercenary comes at him so fast that he barely has time to blink before he has to shift a leg back and hold his staff up in defence. He thrusts it upwards just in time to avoid Deathstroke’s sheathed sword (Tim isn’t even a reputable enough opponent for him to take his blade out from its scabbard) hitting his head.

_..twang..twang..twang..twang.._

Robin knows he’s left himself open down below, and when Deathstroke aims a powerful boot to his midsection, he quickly ducks down and rolls to the side. His staff clangs against the concrete, pressing down on his broken fingers, and one of his feet gets tangled in his cape for a quick moment, but he still makes it to a fair distance away from Deathstroke, and staggers – quickly and dizzily – back to his feet. His throbbing aches are now pounding cries against his muscles, and his head feels like it’s swirling around in water.

_…twang, twang, twang, twang, twang…_

He shakes his head of the illusory water and the twangs and tries to focus as Deathstroke once again moves towards him. Anticipating the same move as before (stupid move, Tim! Stupid!), he once again raises his staff in preparation, but at the last minute – unbelievably quickly – Deathstroke’s sword moves and cuts to the side, swinging down to hit him full force on the forearm.

_…twang twang twang…_

The staff flies from his hands and he bites back a wimper, immediately somersaulting forward to once again put distance between him and Deathstroke. That’s all he can work with now. Distance. However, a large boot forcefully kicks down between his shoulder blades and he falls forward, landing flat onto his chest; his chin bangs against the concrete and he bites his tongue hard enough that blood starts flowing.

_…twangtwangtwangtwang!_

He’s gasping in breaths through broken ribs and he wrenches his eyes shut. Deathstroke’s footsteps and walking towards his head and that twang, twang, twang from Tigress’ bow is filling his ear.

_He knows that sound._

* * *

“You need to loosen up a little.” He glances to the side at the archer standing next to him. She’s trying to hold back a smirk. “It’s not going to bite you.” He nods and takes in a deep breath, shifting his hands slightly on the crossbow.

“That’s not really-” The arrow shoots out from the bow and snaps when it lands against the cave wall next to the target. Tim tries to pretend that he doesn’t notice Artemis wincing. “-loosening up.

“Alright,” she moves to stand in front of him and he immediately makes sure that the bow is pointing to the ground. “When you fight with your bo staff, how do you hold it?” He thinks of holding his staff in his hands, letting it dance across his fingers. He thinks of how he lets it move on its own; his hands are only there as guide.

“Loosely, I guess,” he mumbles. Artemis nods.

“Okay, just pretend that the crossbow is exactly like your staff, only smaller – and things shoot out from it.” Tim nods, and lifts up the bow again to aim. His muscles begin to tense, but he stops, forcing his body to relax. He loosens his grip on the bow, and finally pulls on the release.

Artemis looks suitably impressed when the arrow thunks into the target, third ring from the centre. “Nice shot,” she says, eyebrows raised. “Maybe we should weasel you out of the Batcave and get you working in Star City with us.” Robin ducks his head while Mal, standing off to the side of them room with Conner, speaks up.

“Yeah,” he scoffs, “like Nightwing would let ya.”

“Or Batman,” Conner grumbles, trying to hold back his expression of displeasure as he lets Gar climb along his head and shoulders in the form of a spider monkey.

Artemis ignores them and takes her own shot, hitting the bullseye easily. She and Robin continue to take turns in shooting, and Tim’s shots get closer and closer to the bullseye with each release of an arrow.

While Artemis is waiting during his shots, Robin notices how her index finger plucks at the string of her crossbow. It’s nothing awfully aggravating, but it’s still just enough for him to notice, and wonder if it’s because he’s taking too long.

He finally brings it up, asking if plucking the string like that continuously is bad. Artemis looks down at her bow with an expression of mild perplexity. Apparently she didn’t realize how much her finger had been twitching. “With old strings, definitely,” she answers. “Newer strings, sometimes it’s better to pluck at them for a while to get rid of stiffness. Luckily, this is a new string.” Robin nods, and files the information away in his head.

* * *

Tim hopes the string on Tigress’ crossbow is a new one.

* * *

Shortly after they walked onto the submarine, slipping underneath the waters of deceit and duplicity, Artemis had fitted on her costume – becoming “Tigress”. It was while he showed her the inner workings of the submarine, that she asked Kaldur what the hardest part was. What the worst thing about being undercover was. She had watched as he stared out through the submarine’s glass at the ocean, stone-faced and silent. He continued to stare out at the ocean whilst she walked about the bridge, familiarizing herself with the different buttons, dials and stats.

After an age of stillness, broken only by the soft, whirring engine of the sub, he finally answered.

“I believe the hardest part, is trying to decide which is the hardest part.”

At first, she didn’t get it. She was sure from beginning that the hardest part was going to be having to fight the team; her friends. And when Kaldur’s squad assaulted the cave, and she had to fight Dick, and attack Blue Beetle and Impulse, she was sure she was right.

But then she was holding the trigger in her hand, and she had to close her eyes as she allowed her thumb to press down, and then she was watching it all fall apart. The kitchen that she once tried to bake a cake in with M’gann, and ended up burning because they had spent their time talking instead of watching the oven. The couch that was right in front of the TV, which they would all end up scrabbling towards when it was time to watch a movie, half the time ending up in a weird twisted pile of limbs and hair. The souvenir shelf, on which she and Wally had once partook in a feverish make-out session against, managing with unparalleled talent to knock every single one of the collected objects off the shelves.

She was watching as it all exploded and collapsed in a wave of fire, the force of the boom reaching her, bringing with it, the cry of the mountain ( _why did you do it this was your home this was the best years of your life this was your salvation this was your friends and your family how could you just blow it all away?_ ), and she decided that the hardest part was probably at that moment.

But then team came to retrieve the kidnapped teenagers, and they created enough of a disturbance to entice out  _Black Beetle,_  of all people, to stop them, and she tried to reach them but wasn’t fast enough. She had gone to get Kaldur – because he could fix it, he had to fix it – and found him kneeling, unresponsive, in front of a shell-shocked M’gann, and it hit her that she was now in this alone, and she thought that was the hardest part.

But then she saw the devastated look in M’gann’s eyes as she put together what was really going on, and that suddenly became the hardest part.

So maybe Kaldur was right all along; because once again, as she’s forcing herself to stay put while she watches Deathstroke downright torture Robin, she’s questioning what part of this whole ordeal is the most difficult.

Right now, it’s this.

It’s taking every once of self control to keep her arms by her sides and not shoot the mercenary. Her hands are trembling and she’s trying to keep her breathing even; she doesn’t want Deathstroke pick up on her anger.

(she wants to launch herself at him and punch his face until she’s blinded his one good eye and is able to run and get Tim the hell out of here)

She plants her feet and stays put, only allowing her index finger and her eyes to move.

Robin is pushing himself onto his hands and knees, and it’s such a pitiful effort that Deathstroke sends another forceful kick into his ribs as soon as he’s steadied himself. The boy is rolled onto his back with the force of the kick, and lets a soft groan as he tries to gasp for air, concentrating on the ceiling above him to try and take his mind away from the pain.

“You’re a quiet one, aren’t you?” Deathstroke states, stepping towards the boy. “That’s admirable for your age. Most children would be screaming in pain and begging for mercy by this point.”

Tim wants to tell him that he’s not a child.

“Tell you what,” Deathstroke unbuckles the sword scabbard from his belt. “I’ll give you the advantage. Here.” He drops the sword next to Robin. “Use that – and I’ll use no weapons. An honourable promise between two honourable men.”

Artemis closes her eyes and bites down on her tongue behind her lips. He’s playing with him. Deathstroke is fucking around with him and dangling the bait, and she knows Tim is going to reach out for it. He has no other choice.

_Why can’t she do something?_

“Get up,  _boy_.”

_Kaldur could do this. He could handle this. So can you._

It’s a slow process, getting back to his feet, but Robin finally manages it, and pulls the sword out of its scabbard. Artemis could swear the blade is as wide as Tim’s arms. He holds it uncertainly, and waits in defence for Deathstroke to make the first move. The man scoffs.

“Come on, Robin. I’m sure your esteemed mentor taught you how to use a sword now, didn’t he?” Tim doesn’t respond. “Make the first strike, boy.”

_Don’t do it, Tim._

Robin takes in a deep, shaky breath, and readjusts his hands on the sword’s grip.

He moves forward, and makes a sloppy cut towards Deathstroke’s arm. The mercenary easily dodges it. “You can do much better than that, Robin.” Robin then makes a jab for his abdomen, but Deathstroke once again spins out of the way. “Try again.”

_…twang, twang, twang, twang…_

It goes on like that for a few minutes; Robin making useless swings (he’s not used to a sword – it’s too heavy – too clunky) and Deathstroke easily evading each one. Soon enough, Tim’s head and limbs feel heavy like lead, and with each cut and miss he makes, it’s getting harder and harder to breathe.

He lets the handle slip through his fingers – it knocks against the broken ones and tries not to flinch – and lets the sword clatter onto the concrete, staring steadily at Deathstroke the whole time. He notes as Deathstroke’s one eye flicks down to look at the abandoned weapon, before glancing back up at him.

“Pick up the sword, Robin.”

Tim doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t do anything, except continue to hold the mercenary’s gaze.

_…twang twang…_

“ _Pick up the sword._ ”

He swallows down the fluid at the back of his throat. Whether it’s saliva, blood, phlegm, or a combination of the three, he isn’t sure. “No,” he rasps out. Deathstroke lifts his chin in surprise.

“What was that?”

“No.” It’s clearer this time, and once he states it, he waits for Deathstroke’s reaction.

_…twangtwangtwangtwangtwang…_

“Well.” The man turns slightly to the side. “That’s too bad.” In blinding speed, he manages to step forward and push a powerful kick into Robin’s chest, pushing the boy to the ground. Tim’s head knocks against the wall behind him as he falls, and despite the searing pain in his ribs, he tries to gulp in huge amounts of air.

A boot on his throat cuts off his attempt to gain oxygen. Deathstroke has picked up his sword, and is currently admiring it as he speaks. “I’m disappointed, Robin.” The blade catches the reflection of the light in the room and it momentarily shines into Tim’s eyes. “I thought you were going to be a worthy opponent, but I guess I was wrong.” The boot moves from his throat and he takes a quick gulp of air in, before the boot is replaced by the smooth metal of Deathstroke’s sword, ready to cut into his throat. The sword begins to press into his skin, and Tim closes his eyes.

“Don’t.” It cuts through the silence of the room, and the sword hesitates against Tim’s neck. Deathstroke turns his head towards Tigress, who is still standing stiffly at the other end of the room.

“What was that?”

“Don’t kill him.” Artemis says, muscles strung tight and ready to pounce towards and attack him if she needs.

Deathstroke’s he tilts to the side in curiosity. “And why not?”

Artemis licks her lips. “You want to send the young heroes a message, don’t you?” She asks, trying to keep her voice level and her breaths even. “The message doesn’t get sent if Robin here, dies. All you’ll get is the team’s vengeance.

“You want their fear, right? You want them to dread you.” She nods towards Robin. “You’ll only get that fear if you keep him alive, and allow him to go back to the team to spread your message.”

Deathstroke seems to consider her for a moment, before he takes his sword away from Robin’s neck and begins to walk towards Tigress. She lifts her chin to meet his eye. “Hm. You’re right,” he says, putting his sword back into it’s scabbard. “I’m lucky I kept you around, Tigress.”

He shoves a thin, metal cable into her hands. “I’m off to make sure Junior and the Terrors are doing their job properly. Tie him up so he won’t try and follow us; his little team should find him eventually.” Tigress nods, and immediately starts walking toward the boy as Deathstroke leaves the room.

It’s hard to see, and the room is spinning around his head, but he still notes the black and orange uniform that crouches down in front of him and picks up his wrists gingerly, being sure to be careful of the broken fingers on his left hand. As Tigress begins wrapping the cable around his wrists, he once again swallows back the fluid in his throat and opens his mouth for a whisper.

“Artemis.” The hands on his wrists freeze, and he notices Tigress’ eyes glancing over to the doorway. Deathstroke is already gone.

“Artemis.” It’s more earnest this time, and Artemis takes a sharp breath in and slowly turns her head to look at him. The white-out lens on the right side of his mask has been broken, and she can see the blue eye that was hiding underneath it. It looks scared and desperate, and she immediately turns away. It’s worse than the look that was in M’gann’s eyes when she figured it out. He looks so betrayed and resigned and hurt and _god,_   _she hates this_.

She continues to tie the cable around his wrists, but it’s so loose that he’ll be able to slip his hands right through. After she’s finished her slopping binding job, she fiddles around in her glove for the small, activatable tracker that Nightwing gave her. He had given it to her saying that it is only to be used for emergencies; only if she needs to be pulled out of the job, and pulled out quickly.

Screw it. Dick can get another one to her sometime.

“Artemis?” Tim whispers again; questioning this time, his eyes searching her face, because what if he’s wrong? What if he was mistaken, and this really is just another criminal?

Tigress places the now blinking tracer next to him. “They’ll be here to help you soon,” she whispers, her fingers brushing on his knee lightly, and finally meeting his eyes (and he knows – in that moment, he knows he was right), before she abruptly stands up and darts out of the room – not looking back.

* * *

With no missions for at least a week, and M’gann and Conner away having taken Gar to India for that week, she isn’t expecting anyone to be at the cave when she decides to pop in for a little target practice. That, and the fact that unless he’s hanging upside down from a rafter, Dick isn’t around, leads to her being surprised when she walks into the gym and finds Tim; having his own go at the targets with one of the crossbows she leaves at the cave.

He notices her walk into the room and immediately lowers the bow. “Uh…sorry,” he mumbles, holding out the bow towards her. She waves it off.

“S’fine. What brought you all the way out here?” She watches as he lines up his aim and releases another arrow into the target, noting that he’s improved a lot since the last time she tried to teach him. The arrow hits just to the right of the bullseye and Tim lowers the bow, staring at the target.

“Just…had to get away,” he mutters, ducking his head to look down at his feet.

Artemis frowns and leans forward. “Hey...Tim. What’s up?”

The boy looks at his feet for a moment and exhales. “I…messed up,” he whispers.

“Everyone messes up.”

“No, this was really bad. Ba-Bruce got really mad at me, and even Dick’s…not happy with me.” He leans back on the table behind him, crossbow forgotten in his hand, frowning at his feet.

Artemis walks over and sits on the table next to him. “You know they only get angry because they’re worried, right?”

“Yeah, because of Jason…” He lifts up his head a little. “You think I’m ever gonna be as good as he was?”

Artemis frowns towards the target. “I don’t think you need to be. I think you just need to be as good as you can be.” She pulls a face. “Wow. That sounded lame.” Tim doesn’t reply, and the silence extends on.

Finally, after a moment of frowning in thought, Artemis turns towards him again. “Hey, what’s your favorite milkshake flavor?”

Tim lifts his head and looks up at her in confusion. “I…uh - why?”

“Come on. She pushes herself off the table and gestures for Tim to follow. “I want to see if I can still try to con you into working in Star City instead of Gotham.”

“Artemis, I can’t work in Star City…”

“You haven’t tried our milkshakes yet.”

* * *

It’ll all be worth it when this is over. It has to be.

Because she’s still confused on what the hardest part of this all is.

**Author's Note:**

> This was written around mid-Invasion - when I thought Deathstroke was actually going to be scary.


End file.
